The Lecter Variations
by Penelope S Cartwright
Summary: Complete. The autobiography of Hannibal Lecter, M.D. This story is a frame story. Will start off as third person and then switches to first. Final Chapter has been rewritten.
1. The Specter

**Author's Note: I had to write and post this chapter right now. This idea has been floating around in my head so I need to release it. This takes place a couple years after the movie. I decided to take matters into my own hands...**

**Chapter One: The Specter**

Dusk was settling down on the large estate. Hundreds of people moved over the lawn and mingled with each other. Beautiful torches lined the pathways that led to the house and out to the garden. The people wore elegant evening gowns and suits. All were wearing masks. Most had some sort of animal mask on. Others had Mardi Gra masks with large ornaments dangling from them. The servants wore pure white suits with masks. The master of the house wore a black suit. His mask was a mink. _A cemetery mink._ He watched his guests through the narrow slits in the mask. A small orchestra played next to the house. Many of his guests danced slowly. The air was still warm. A soft breeze blew through the trees that surrounded the land. He breathed in deeply. He held the air in his lungs and then let it out slowly through his nose. A certain fragrance seemed familiar. He breathed through his nose. Yes, he knew that scent... He turned his gaze to the crowd. A lone woman stood by herself in the middle of all the dancing couples. She wore an extremely beautiful dark red dress with no straps. The flesh of her shoulders and arms was the color of snow and well defined. Her hair was a fiery red. She wore a skull mask. Sapphire blue eyes blazed out of the dark circles of the ugly mask. For the first time in only God know how long, he felt something akin to fear. He was not afraid though. Those sapphire eyes told him that they would meet and only one person was going to walk away. The beautiful ghastly figure walked around the dancers and disappeared into a throng of people. He scanned the crowd again but he couldn't see her. Her perfume still lingered in the air.

People wandered past him. Some stopped for a second or two to try to engage him in conversation. He answered vaguely and turned to go into the house. Some couples sat on the immaculate furniture talking loudly and drinking the best wine he had. He passed them and looked around for his beautiful ghost. His keen eyesight saw a flash of red at the top of the darkened staircase. All the invited guests knew they were not allowed upstairs. He grew a touch annoyed at the audacity of this woman. She showed up uninvited, unannounced, and had not greeted the host. He considered that rude. He walked up the stairs. Her perfume was exceedingly familiar. He still couldn't place it. When he reached the top, the woman had vanished again. He pulled off his mask. A small light turned on in his private study. He could see the light coming from under the closed door. He didn't bother trying to hide his presence so he marched up to the door and opened it. The woman looked up into his face when he entered and silently closed the door. She sat in one of his high back brown leather chairs. She had her legs crossed and in her lap was a .45 with a silencer attached to it. Her right hand rested gently, almost lovingly, on it. He looked her up and down trying to analyze the situation he had walked into. His eyes widened further when he heard her speak. He _knew_ that voice!

"Dr. Lecter. It's been a while. Can you please take a seat."

**Author's Note again: This is my take on the next movie. Since they are not using this title, I am "borrowing" it for my story. Please tell me what you think of it so far, dear readers!**


	2. Threats and Misery

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters that you recognize. All rights belong to Thomas Harris and I'd like to thank him for writing such wonderful novels. I am making no money off this what so ever (unless you'd like to send me some as a "donation,"** **I really don't mind!) and** **am deathly afraid of lawyers. **

**Chapter Two: Threats and Misery**

Dr. Lecter was able to mask his surprise well. His eyes were the only sign she saw that he had recognized her. He sat down across from her as he was told.

"To what or who do I owe the pleasure of your company, _Special Agent Starling_?"

"You have no one to thank but myself," she said.

Her voice was different he noticed. There was no youthfulness nor veracity in her tone. The hand that was not resting on the gun, rose up to her face and took off the skull mask. There was no color in it. She only wore black eyeliner and shadow that made her eyes intense. Her lips looked an unhealthy shade of pink. They were almost blue. The look she gave him chilled his heart. He was looking at a shade of a former woman he knew. She spoke to him again.

"Do you like my perfume? It was made by the same shop that you used to frequent in Florence. I've been around the world looking for you, Dr. Lecter."

"So the F.B.I. have assigned you to my case again, have they?"

"Not exactly. Let's just say that I'm on your case _'unofficially.' _"

"Unofficially? Hmm... That is rather sly of them. I would have noticed your name in the V-CAP files if they did. So are you here to clap irons on me?"

He raised his wrists and smirked at her. She still remained emotionless. He dropped them and narrowed his eyes at her.

"What are you really here for, Clarice?"

She motioned with her eyes to his desk. He looked in that direction and saw a large folder on it.

"Your case file, Dr. Lecter. Your _incomplete _case file. I want to be the one who finishes it and puts it away for good."

"Your still ambitious and looking for advancement."

"Don't tell me things that I've already heard and known for a long time."

Her eyes blazed with determination. To him, there was a great fire behind the ice of her eyes.

"Do I have any say in this matter?"

"No."

"Any _choices_?" he sneered.

The only person to catch him off guard was Will Graham. He hated but respected him. Now this slip of a woman had him bested, too. Pleasantries were quickly put away.

"Yes. Tell me the missing pieces or don't."

Her grip seemed to tighten slightly on the gun. He stared at her, tilting his head a little to the side as if getting a good view of her. She was apathetic. '_What has happened to you, little Starling?'_

"Fine. But I have one proviso of my own. I get to ask you one question when I am done. Agreed?"

She nodded her head.

"Agreed."

**Author's Note: This chapter was just a filler one to start off the story. That's why its not very interesting nor long. Sorry guys. Clarice in this story is going to be a very different one then we're used to seeing. Very dark, cold, and malicious, though only through time, dear readers, we'll see how much. I hope I can keep Dr. Lecter in character. I don't really know how he would really react in this situation. **


	3. The Fall of Innocence

**Chapter Three: The Fall of Innocence**

Dr. Lecter reached into his jacket. He heard the click of the .45. He looked back at Clarice and saw her pointing it at him. She wore a smirk on that once beautiful face.

"I am only getting a cigar and light. I am not armed," he said.

"I don't know that."

"Have I ever lied to you?"

He heard her release the gun and set the safety. He pulled out a cuban with his lighter and lit it. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smooth and bold taste of it.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all. Quit wasting my time, Doctor. I believe you have a story to tell that is going to be long indeed."

He nodded to her, still puffing on his cigar. His eyes became distant and slightly darker. He took a deep breath and began.

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I was born on January 20th, 1938, a harsh winter day. I had overheard one of our servants say one time that the sun had stopped shining as if God had known an atrocity was brought into the world. I later found out that she was not referring to my nature but rather to my father's. He had raped my mother at a social engagement in Vilnius. When she became pregnant, her family forced him to marry her or else they would press charges. When I was born, they knew immediately that I was my father's son. We had the same eyes. My mother was six years younger than my father. She had a gentle constitution, stern when she needed to be, but was deathly afraid of my father. She never stood up to him. Her family quickly disowned her like it had been her fault. I will never understand the backward logic of the aristocracy. I was brought up with, as the expressions goes, "a silver spoon in my mouth." From an early age I exhibited the unnatural ability of comprehension and literacy. I first learned my father's tongue of Lithuanian and then my mother's of Italian.

My father. Never was there more a cruel and calculating man to set foot on this earth. Tall and handsome, he had his pick of any woman in the country. But he had chosen my mother. He was a count by birth and closely involved in the government. No one crossed his path and lived. I learned that early on. My sister, Mischa, was born on March 15, 1940. I loved her the moment I saw her. I knew my mother favored her more than me. Mischa was a beautiful infant with curly black hair and ice blue eyes like my mother's. She was an innocent unlike myself. Even the servants loved her. She was like the beginning of spring, the bringing of new life. My father was proud of both us. He had his heir in me and a beautiful daughter to be married off in some alliance he could profit from. He was always thinking of the future. I felt it was my duty to look after Mischa. Sometimes when the servants left the nursery early, I would slip in and stand watch over her the whole night. I didn't know why I did. I still don't. I only knew that I loved her. When she was old enough to walk, she became my only playmate. I would show her the best hiding places incase she ever crossed my father on a bad day. She hardly left my side. For all people knew, she was my twin.

We both heard talk of a distant war, but it did not concern us. Who were we to worry about adult affairs? Mischa and I learned to speak at a very early age though she was not cursed with intelligence beyond her years. I was. The servants were both frightened and amazed at my talents. Once I listened to my mother play the grand piano we owned. After she walked out of the room to get a glass of water, I snuck in and started to play the same song. I heard a distant crash of glass against the floor and my mother's distant footsteps hurry to the room. She gasped when she saw me at the bench. Shock was written all over her face. She came and sat next to me and waited till I finished. She played a new song and I played it back to her. She smoothed back my hair from my forehead and kissed my forehead. That is the only memory I have of my mother being affectionate with me.

For months Mischa would wake in the middle of the night and come into my room. Now we could hear the distant whine of bombs as they fell from the air. During the day we could see dark ominous clouds in the east. One day I was able to smell gun powder and something else. I never knew what that smell was until a couple of weeks later... The village that we lived in quickly became deserted. We were the one of the only ones to stubbornly stay in the manor. My mother had tried begging my father to at least let her take us away from the bloodshed. He refused saying it was a cowardly thing to do. He said that as a Lecter he was bound to the land and he would rather die than see it go to barbarians like the Germans. We heard my mother cry out in pain and then my father's voice telling her it was her family's fault also. We could hear him rant on how Mussolini was just a madman and that the Italians were desperate idiots for listening to him. Mischa and I fell asleep to the sobbing of our mother.

The next morning the sound of gunfire was just a mile away. My father owned a rifle and patrolled the land with it. My mother stared out of the window the whole time. Mischa was the fearful one. She held onto to me whenever she could. I was vigilant. I knew something was coming though what I didn't know. My mother jumped suddenly from her window seat and ran outside without a word to us. I replaced my mother at the seat. I saw my father with a couple of male servants standing in front of the barn. My mother was running to meet them. I also saw men in dark gray uniforms holding machine guns and other automatic weapons. It was snowing lightly. I could see the foot prints they left behind. I saw that they all wore swastikas on their arms. I remember my father had stepped forward and raised the rifle. Machine gun fire roared through the silence and deafened me momentarily. I saw a splash of red spray the snow. I then saw my parents fall to the ground. My father on his back, my mother on her front. The servants were laid over each other. I knew now that the unidentified scent that I had detected earlier was blood. It soaked the snow. The men wasted no time in sacking the house. I had stood there numb and let them drag me into the barn. Mischa was by my side, weeping silently. Some of the servants' children were also locked in the barn with us. The women who served us were left to the mercy of the soldiers. You can scarcely imagine what they went through. We heard their screams and plies of mercy at night. We could hear the drunken laughter of beings so low I cannot call them men. The winter air penetrated through the closed barn doors. I held Mischa as we slept to keep her warm. Her frail body shivered against mine. A week passed by with us trapped in the barn. We were dehydrated and starving. One of the smallest boys among was able to slip through a whole in the barn and promised to bring us supplies. We heard a single gun shot and knew we weren't getting any. A lone soldier fed us after 18 days of being locked up. I vomited most of the food I ate from eating too fast. Mischa seeing my folly ate hers slowly.

I woke up the next morning to the yells of the brutes. I looked through a crack in the barn and saw a most disturbing sight. They had surrounded a deer with an arrow through its neck. The defenseless creature staggered around and out of their reach, bucking every now and then if one of them got too close. I saw that six men were there. Two more appeared with their bayonets and makeshift clubs. I watched as they clubbed and stabbed it to death. One of the men was yelling to the others to get a bowl so as not to waste the blood. They butchered the creature beyond recognition. Most of the meat became useless to them. They left the carcass to rot where they killed it. I had tears of anger in my eyes. These brutes were philistines come to torment us. The smell in the barn suffocated me. It was the smell of grief, hopelessness, decaying animal waste, rotting hay, and a dozen filthy children. That imagery has never left my mind.

I became wary of them when they started feeding us periodically. There was something very wrong with that. Then one day they came in a grabbed the plumpest of us and dragged him out of the barn. The sight was pitiful. The boy fought but was no match for the men. The winter months had three more weeks until they were over. Every four days they came in a grabbed another child. Each time I held Mischa against me and tried to hide her under the hay. Finally it was only the two of us. We had thought they would move on any day. Then they opened the barn door. I can remember this with such frightening clarity. Three of them stood at the entrance. I squared off my thin and bony shoulders to them. Mischa was huddled into the corner I pushed her in. I watched as they surrounded me and grabbed me from behind. I tried to fight them off as best as I could, but being only a small six year old, I stood no chance. One of them broke my arm when I swung at him. They felt my thin arms and legs and dropped me to the ground. The pain in my arm blinded me for a couple of minutes. When I had regained my sight I saw Mischa slung over the shoulder of one of them. She looked back at me until they closed the barn doors. I never saw my sister alive again.

A couple of days passed with me wailing in pain and agony in the barn. The manor was unusually quite. One day though I smelt smoke and feared that the barn was catching fire with myself inside of it. I heard the sound of gunfire. I screamed my throat raw to let somebody, any body, know I was still in there. A figure opened the door and I became unconscious.

I awoke up in a hospital in the center of Vilnius. My arm had been set with a cast and I was strapped down onto the bed. All I could think of was how I was going to get out of there. And where I was going to go. I had no other family. Or rather no other family that would welcome me. I was orphaned. It was about three weeks later when the hospital threw me out. They didn't have room for me since all the wounded soldiers were coming in. They had cut off my cast and then told me to find my relatives. I wondered the streets of Vilnius, thinking of my parents, of our home burnt to the ground, of Mischa. With a new resolve, I ran almost ten miles to the manor. I stopped when I saw thin wisps of dark smoke raising into the air. I walked silently so as not to alert any stragglers of my presence. No one was there. The manor was completely destroyed. The foundation was the only part of the house to survive. The barn was still intact though, and the outhouse next to the manor. I searched through the barn with a child's hope that my sister had somehow survived, that she was there, hiding, waiting for my return. Of course I searched in vain. I went into the outhouse as a last resort. I did not find Mischa in there. Only her teeth. Amidst the foul excrements of the savages were her baby teeth. I ran out of that awful place as fast as I could. I didn't stop running. Later on in life I finally found the best word to describe those deserters. Cannibals.


	4. Troubles and Tribulations

**Chapter Four: Troubles and Tribulations**

Dr. Lecter inhaled deeply. The thick smoke of the cigar hung about the room. Clarice had not moved a muscle the whole time. It had unnerved him a little. She wasn't smirking anymore. Just staring at him like she was watching some odd specimen at the zoo.

"Would you like anything, Clarice?"

"No thank you, Doctor. Please go on. Your whole childhood has never been discussed before. I take it that I'm the only living person to know the first chapters of your history?"

"Yes, you are. Your case file will be complete, also."

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From the barn, I roamed the countryside for food and shelter. I was able to get employment from a farmer and was allowed to stay in the barn. The farmer was a very eccentric man with a love of books. I stole a couple of them. I needed something to relieve me of my grief. I didn't want to think of the manor, my parents, or Mischa; all three seemed to linger at the edge of my mind. I spent a year with the farmer. Eventually he let me move into a small bedroom in the attic. He was something a kin to a grandfather to me now. One day when I was out in the fields I saw an automobile drive up to the house. From my position I saw a tall man step out of it. He was dressed in a black suit. He walked up to the house and knocked. The farmer let him inside. I finished my chores and went around the back of the barn to wash up. I went through the back porch and into the house as silently as I could. I didn't want to disturb the farmer.

"Hannibal! Hannibal!"

Hearing my name I walked into the kitchen and saw the farmer and the man at the table. Both had large cups of beer with a plate of bread in the middle. I looked between the two of them. You must know that I still didn't trust anyone. Being only seven years, the events in my past made me very mistrustful of adults.

"Hannibal, this is Dr. Konrad Nikolaus. Konrad, this is Hannibal Lecter, the boy I wrote to you about..."

Dr. Nikolaus extended his hand and I shook it. He had thin callouses covering his whole hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Hannibal."

I just nodded and took a seat. The farmer started talking about the school that Dr. Nikolaus ran. He was the Headmaster and was interested in tutoring me.

"You want to tutor me?" I asked bluntly.

"Yes, I do. I've seen some examples of your intellect. The farmer has told me that you like to steal his books and have actually understood them for someone your age."

I stayed quiet. I did not know what to think of this stranger. He seemed alright, but I wouldn't trust him.

"Where are you taking me and for how long," I pressed.

"To the Institution for as long as it takes."

The Institute was the one of the best things to ever happen to me. Dr. Nikolaus tutored me personally from mathematics to the abstract arts.

"Never had I a more willing student to learn," he used to tell the other faculty.

Germany was still rebuilding itself after the war so everything was unstable, even the Institute. Some of the pro-Nazi professors felt it was within their duty to keep up the fanatical nationalism that had been one of the causes of the war anyway. They were carted off campus never to return. I still distrusted many of the Germans. Konrad told me to reign in my anger and put that energy into my studies. I did. I focused my studies primarily on the anatomy of the human body. The structures and functions fascinated me yet I knew something was missing. Man is not only flesh and blood. Konrad explained to me of a new "science," Psychology. I did not believe it was a science then and still do. The human mind could be interpreted into so many things. Layers upon layers of experiences and emotions define a person. We do not have the power to delve into a person's mind and know exactly why he is as he is. I was sixteen when I started studying this subject. Working on the farm had given me an excellent physique. Most of the students were a few years older than me, but that didn't seem to deter some of the younger women from pursuing me. Konrad only caught me once in my room entertaining a young beautiful woman. Said woman happened to be the daughter of my psychology professor. Konrad threw her out of the room and yelled at me for "jeopardizing" my future. He did not speak to me for a week. I formally graduated from the Institute at the age of eighteen. I earned my place in society. I was finally able to manage my own affairs legally. I left the Institution on a very dreary, wet morning. The first stop I made was to the farmers house. The farm itself had become dilapidated and overgrown. The door to the house was open so I went inside. All of the farmers furniture and possessions were still in the house. No sight of the farmer. I hitched hiked the rest of the way to the nearest town and found out that the farmer had died three years after I had left. Konrad had not told me. I had one more stop before I left mainland Europe. I took a train this time to Vilnius. The capital looked fine from what I can tell but had changed since last I'd been there. I paid a taxi to drive me to the ruins of my manor.

"The old Lecter estate, sir? Why would a young man such as yourself want to go there? The whole village is deserted and the only thing left of the manor are the floors and basement."

"Just drive, please."

The whole ride took thirty minutes. We drove straight through the village. The houses were dark and grimy. Some had missing windows and roofs. Occasionally, we saw a stray cat or dog lurk near the road only to disappear when they noticed us. About ten minutes outside the village we saw the trees grow thin and scarce. The barn in which a dozen children including myself were imprisoned came into view. The paint had peeled and caome off most of the building. The dark wood looked rotted and eaten away in some places. I stepped out of the car dressed in one of three suits Konrad had given me. I ran my fingers a long the cold surface. Prying open one of the doors I saw the remains of hay and spider webs long forsaken. Turning to the manor I saw the outline of where it use to be. The outhouse was still there also yet I couldn't go there. Mischa became very real to me then. Shadows of the past flew around in my mind. I imagined that I could actually hear her soft little laugh in my ear. The driver's voice interrupted my musings.

"What is your name? No one has come to this place for years. Everyone believes that it is haunted. No one who lived here survived; even the bones of all the children were found in shallow graves. How do you know of it anyway?" he said eyeing me.

I decided to tell him the truth to curb his talk.

"My name is Hannibal Lecter. I lived here until my parents were killed."

The man stared at me as if he was seeing a phantom. He took an unconscious step backwards in fear.

"I'm ready to go now."

I walked back to the car and sat down. The man pulled out a cigarette and lit it nervously. His hands shook. He did not go back to the car until five minutes had passed. It was silent going back to Vilnius. From Vilnius, I stopped again at the deceased farmer's home and gathered all the books I wanted. From there, I walked to the nearest train station and headed for France. Paris was my second to last destination. I was able to get help from speaking Italian and German. I was able to buy passage onto a streamliner heading towards London. The voyage itself was one of the most uncomfortable and sickening experiences I have ever endured. Very early, I developed sea sickness and was confined to my cabin for the rest of the time. Pale, very thin, and shaking, I departed from that wretched boat. I've only taken a cruise once since then, having developed an aversion to sailing. Once I was on dry land, I recovered quickly and headed to the prestigious Oxford University. Getting a translator I was able to enroll in a more advanced medical field. I was speaking and writing English in a month. I was accepted into the doctorate program and became a favorite of my teachers. By then I knew I wanted to become a psychiatrist. I had seen the way they had helped and in some cases manipulated them. Manipulation was and still is an unethical procedure in psychology. I only used it in cases of severe mental disturbances. I delved deeper into the subject and decided for myself that it was and still is an art form. It is an art form that some people (the former Ferderick Chilton, for example) only dreamed of mastering. I researched into the different branches and found that I enjoyed the cognitive and behavioral aspects best. I still used some Freudian tools such as free association but not many. I did not want to spend years with an idiot interpreting dreams. I wanted to know about their worst experiences and that was it. I could build up effective case studies in a few short hours. I was able to get my doctorate early. By then I was earning a very good income as a resident. I saved and "hid" some of it for "just in case." Don't assume why I did that. You know how 'ole Jackie boy felt about that word. I did not have dreams or urges to kill anyone yet. No that chapter of my life came later.

Meeting Rachel is the only significant event that happened when I was in London...

**Author's Note: I am so terribly sorry for the long delay! Time is a being a bitch to me right now! Still I am very grateful for all of you guys' patience! The next chapter will be up sometime next week. I work nine days straight and won't get a day off until Thursday, and even then I won't be able to update (I'll be at the theater all that day enjoying a performance of Wicked! And then off for a night on the town, L.A., with one of my buds, Natalie!) So thank you all again for reading! **


	5. Getting Started

**Chapter Five: Getting Started **

"Rachel?"

"Yes."

"Rachel. Mrs. Rachel Rosencranz nee DuBerry?"

"The one and only. She was still DuBerry when I met her."

"How did you two meet?"

"All good things to those who wait, Clarice..."

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My practice in London was steady though not as successful as my practice in Baltimore would become. I had my own flat. I visited the theaters and frequented the operas. My patients in London were drab and dull. Some after a only two or three sessions recovered fairly quickly. They were the best of my patients. The others however... Tedious. Very tedious. They were not among the lucky ones. They were the ones who did not and will not recover. It would have been better had they been eradicated from society. Just an observation, _Special Agent Starling_. I did not kill any of my patients in London.

I was invited one night to see the gala night of _Don Giovanni_. My fellows insisted I escort a woman, an American, whom was visiting her father on a business trip. Her father was one of the wealthiest men in America. A tyrant to the end, the man made his living in the steel industry, revolutionizing the way ore is processed. When I arrived at the prearranged meeting place, I saw a tall, thin, and beautiful woman. You must have seen the pictures of her when she was featured on _Vogue_. Dark hair and eyes with pale soft skin, she had the looks most women would kill for. That night she was wearing a red dress that hung onto every curve of her body; and she had many.

"You must be Dr. Lektor," she said in a deep gravely voice. She was truly of the smoking and cocktail era.

"Dr. Lecter," I corrected her while shaking her hand.

"Foreign, are you? I can't seem to place your accent? German?"

"No. Lithuanian. You must be Ms. DuBerry. It's a pleasure to make your acquittance."

I kissed her hand and saw her blush slightly.

"Shall we?"

We headed towards the opera. In the taxi, I learned she was not just another beautiful face. She was refined, sophisticated, and very intelligent. She knew a lot about psychology but loved the arts far more. She didn't need a job ever so she traveled with her father or mother. She told me that she lived in Baltimore and that she was destined to marry into "society."

"Marrying into money is for security and to give Dad a sense of accomplishment," she told me.

She was a brazen one. Never rude intentionally. She was just too blunt for her own good sometimes. We had a wonderful time just talking to each other. As the night wore on and the wine flowed, her accent became more apparent to me. She had hid it well. Around one in the morning, I escorted her to her hotel room. She placed a chaste kiss upon my lips and said, "Till we meet again, Dr. Lecter."

I didn't see her again for another five years. I left England with enough money to start my own independent practice yet I did not know where I wanted to stay. I traveled to my beloved Florence for the first time. I wondered around the streets and plazas. I toured the history and art museums. Do you still remember that sketch of the Dumo as seen from the Belvedere? That was the first time I ever saw it. The channels were a wonderful way to get around the city. They were so unlike the deep and wretched seas. The people of Florence were and still are, if I might add, a proud group of people. They were always respectful and courteous to me. When in Florence I took the name of Dr. Fell. I started using aliases when I traveled. These deep and long seated personas gave me freedom and safety when I escaped from that court house. Florence, though, was not an ideal place for me to start a practice. Many of the people thought that a psychiatrist was some sort of "witch" doctor, a taboo. I instantly knew that I would never see a man at my practice if I started there. I was melancholy to leave the ancient and beautiful city yet I knew I had to think of my calling first. I went to Buenos Aires next. The women there were appalling. I had women asking what was wrong with themselves since they could not get a man or why did they not become pregnant after three months of trying! They harped on about their own unpleasant childhoods, hardly letting me say a word. Rude and uncouth, I wanted to strangle them. How some of these women could ever afford to see a psychiatrist, was beyond me. After only a month, I moved to the States.

With that, I started my decent into what self-professed _professionals_ call madness... I call it my awakening...

**Author's Note: So sorry for the long wait! Blame it on real life and responsibilities!** **I'm also apologizing for this horribly short chapter. The next one will be longer since I have more of an idea of how Dr. Lecter came to the states. Thank you all for waiting patiently. I really appreciate all your reviews. And let me say to LadyAlena**, _WOW! _**And to Katherine, A.A.Aron, Saavik, JahWarrior, you guys are awesome! I only hope I can write to your levels of expectations. **


	6. The United States of America

**Chapter Six: The United States of America **

It was on February 1, 1970, that I moved to this _glorious_ country. I came here on a visa to work at Maryland-Misericordia Hospital. After spending a month in the emergency room I knew I had to stay here. There was a different atmosphere there that I couldn't describe. I was able to practice my field of study without the impending presence of the "conventional." Most of the doctors that I had met in Europe were very set in their ways. They taught all that they knew and expected you to follow in their footsteps. There was no change. There was no imagination or ingenuity. But I still found people that I despised here...

A couple of months after I established my citizenship, a man was taken to the emergency with an arrow wound. He was garbed in full military attire with the bow sticking out of his left shoulder. How he managed that I don't know. I treated the wound but thought that it was not the right season for hunting. It was illegal this time of year and surely he knew it. He claimed he wasn't hunting but practicing. It was odd that he was practicing with hunting clothes and green and brown make up on. I stitched him up (145 stitches to be exact) and released him from the hospital. He had piqued my interest, however. I followed him to his jeep and saw all of his equipment stashed in the back of it. I knew he lied to me! I knew! It was a talent I had yet had not trusted or revered.

I followed him home.

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"He wasn't the first one you killed, Doctor."

"Your right. He wasn't. He was only a starting factor."

Clarice shifted in her seat slightly. She let go of the gun and brought both of her hands to her hair and tied it back with a rubber band. Dr. Lecter never thought of taking advantage of that small act of defenselessness. He was strong but he did not want to have to tangle with a pissed off Clarice. Hurting her would hurt him ten times more. She stifled a yawn.

"When was the last time you rested, Agent Starling?" he said soothingly.

"Three days ago. Before the records were sealed, the case file stated that your first victim was Pernelle Forsell. She was a student at Princeton and also a patient of yours. I believe she was one the first ones of your private practice."

"She was. That happened two months after I started my practice. Quite a story that one."

"Do tell," she said scathingly.

Narrowed eyes glared at her. Dr. Lecter sat straighter in his chair with both of his arms resting on the arms of the chair.

"I can and will stop telling my tale if you persist in being so rude. I spent almost six years not talking to that spineless imbecile, Dr. Chilton. I could spend another five in silence. I really don't mind."

A metallic click met his ear.

"Are you really going to kill me, Special Agent Starling?"

"Yes."

They both stared each other down. Neither was going to back down. Dr. Lecter resigned himself to death and Clarice resigned herself in being the executor of said death. A rapt knock broke the tense silence.

"Hannibal! Darling! You must come down for your own party!"

Maroon eyes never leaving ice blue ones, Dr. Lecter said, "I'll be down in a while my dear. I'm entertaining a very old acquaintance at the moment. We have rather a lot to discuss..."

"Oh! Do be quick! Some of the other guests are starting to wonder..."

With that the woman behind the door walked away. They could hear the click of her high heels on the wooden floor. Clarice uncocked the gun. Her expression was pensive for a moment.

"My apologies, Doctor. Please continue."

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I opened my own practice in Baltimore in the fall of 1973. I purchased a large well-furnished home and converted several rooms into my study and practice. I was well on my way to being well-known among socialites and other prominent people. Rachel contacted me a week after I had settled in. She introduced me formally into American society. I was quickly accepted among the academics and snobs. People loved my wit and dry humor. I was compassionate when I needed to be and sympathetic towards them. Rachel persuaded me to join the board of the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra. I agreed and accepted the nomination. After every performance, I honored them with an elaborate dinner. My culinary skills were and still are excellent if I might add (though I can guarantee you would not eat nor enjoy some of the dishes).

Pernelle Forsell walked into my office one day having heard from one of her father's friends that I was a psychiatrist. In the strictest confidence, she arranged sessions twice a week. She had a rather bad habit of drinking and sleeping around.

"A slut. Or so my father says," she had said while lighting a cheap cigarette.

She was the first person I killed and I'm glad I did it. She was a menace to society. Her sessions with me were going no where. She stubbornly refused to alienate herself from the dregs of society. One day I even noticed track marks on her arms. Her appearance when she first met me was of a heathly young woman who only needed more sleep. Before I killed her, she was a wasted junkie, too thin and sickly. The night I killed her was surprisingly clear and crisp. She was reclining on the sofa, telling me how much she hated her father for forcing her to come to me.

Listening to her whine, made me angry for how vulgar and ungrateful she sounded.

"Shut up for a damned second, princess."

She gaped at me as though I had slapped her. I went on.

"You need to realize that what your doing is going to kill you within another year or two. You're a whore and a disgrace to your family. Quit thinking about yourself for a bloody second. What do you think about when your on your back and a man is having his way with you? Do you think of your father? Or how about your mother? I've noticed she's not looking well... You need to tell her to lay off of the sleeping pills. Those can be fatal also."

Pernelle was up on her feet in a second. Her eyes had widened and had an animalistic glint to them. Her clothes hung baggily around her emaciated frame.

"You son of a bitch, motherfucker. Don't you dare talk about me or my family that way!"

"Why so defensive all of the sudden? I thought you hated them. What was it that you called your father? Oh! Yes, that cocksucker–."

She launched herself on me. She was too weak to put up much of an offensive though. Without realizing what I was doing, I broke her neck. Contrary to popular belief, I did not start off fileting my victims. I carried her body down into the cellar and laid it out on a table. In death, she looked more peaceful. I did not feel remorse. I did not feel angry. I looked on to her prone body and curiosity got the better of me. With surgical scissors I cut off all her clothes. If you remember, Clarice, she was found naked but was not sexually assaulted in any way. Turning her over on her back, I retrieved a scalpel and made a straight incision down her back. I made two more incisions across the top and bottom of the first one, enabling me to pull the flesh and muscle away. I clamped them open. Studying the corpse, I noticed that the drug use to did not affect nor reach some of her organs. A picture of Mischa flashed through my mind.

The sensation was so powerful that for a second I couldn't breathe. I hadn't thought of her in years. I was ashamed for that. I inhaled sharply. Looking back to the body, I thought of the soldiers. Had they killed Mischa first or had they eaten her alive? Did they gut her open or just take piece by little piece? I went back to the body. I noticed her pancreas was still healthy and removed it. I dropped it onto a metal pan. I stitched up her back and cleaned her up as best as I could. It would have not done well for me if she were discovered with evidence. I drove her car and left it at a club she frequented. Her body, after waiting another two days, was deposited on the steps of her father's company building.

The incident was in the papers that evening. There were theories everywhere from a busted drug deal to her father killing her. The authorities had of course questioned me. I was the last person to see her alive supposedly. When they left my office, they checked me off their suspects list. The Sunday paper came and with it, a new intensely exhilarating part of my life. I had made the first page.

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait! Time is ever elusive these days. I just wanted to put in a small warning here before I go on with the next chapters... This will turn more gruesome and graphic. If your squeamish, be careful. Thank you all again for being such loyal readers! I got inspiration for this chapter because I got tickets today to go see Anthony Hopkins at the Arclight Theather in L.A.! I can't wait! **


	7. Two, Three, Four,

**Chapter Seven: Two, Three, Four,... **

The cigar was half done. Dr. Lecter tapped the ash into a tray just beside him. Electricity seemed to flow through the room. Clarice had sat up straighter and seemed to take everything in like a recorder. Smoke hung thickly in the air.

"Well, go on, Doctor," she said, a slight plea in her voice.

The gun was forgotten for now. She sat with both hands clutching the seat. Her mask still resting next to her. Her expression seemed to brighten. Her anticipation shone through her eyes. He could tell she was trying to remain as calm as possible. _No one_ knew how the murders were committed. Dr. Lecter sighed. Why did everyone find this so interesting? They were just killings, nothing more, nothing less. Those people had been vile, rude, and deserved to die; at least in his eyes.

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My second victim was Jonathan Marquez. He was beyond therapy. He was a maniac. His fits would throw him into a state of hysteria which would make him jerk and twitch so badly he would grimace with pain. He would jabber and slur his speech even when he wasn't having a fit. When I killed him, I cut out his tongue. I left his bloody body in an alley in the heart of Chesapeake.

Now I had two organs in my refrigerator. I thought of them often until one day I purchased an antique cookbook. It was french and clearly a magnificent book. It did not take me long to cook both of those meals. I did not have a second thought on eating human flesh. I started studying which wines would go well with them, too.

My practice at this time was doing very well. My theories on criminal behavior had won me some renown. The Maryland and Virginian courts had hired me as a consultant. I did evaluations on the conditions of the persons standing trial as well as develop profiles on criminals not yet caught. Every time a detective or agent, even an ordinary deputy, used my information, the suspect was caught and charged.

My name appeared in editorials and articles in the paper. It was wonderful. Rachel and I met regularly at the performances and at other social gatherings. The president of the Board simply loved me. He could find no fault in me and esteemed my taste in music. Later that year I went to Rachel's first wedding. The man she married looked as if he was only going to live for another ten years or so. A very good tactical move on her part; she inherited all his money once he died.

My third victim came to me one night in a very depressed state. Darcy Taylor was an attractive woman, a little on the plump side. I found her waiting for her in my office, crying silently. She was very pale with light brown hair. She wore just jeans and a camisole.

"Doctor, I need help," she said quietly.

I nodded and motioned her to sit in front of my desk. I took my seat behind it. Her quiet demeanor was a good sign. She seemed to have recognized she needed help with some problem. I offered her a handkerchief and waited quietly for her to begin.

"First of all, doctor, I don't have much money but–."

"You don't have to worry about that, Miss..."

"Taylor. Darcy Taylor. I don't want to be pitied."

"You won't be. We'll worry about how you are going to pay for this later. Now let me hear what's troubling you."

She took a deep breath and let it out shuttering. Her eyes swept the office only meeting mine briefly. She looked down the remainder of the time.

"Doctor Lecter, I've heard from a friend that you're the best shrink out here. I've done something horrible. Really horrible..."

"Go on. All of our meetings are confidential, you have nothing to fear. I will not judge." _Yet. _

She sat up straighter in her chair and started her long and sordid tale.

"I was abused as a child, sexually... My uncle from my dad's side of the family visited of home for the summer. I was only eight. I hate him for what he did to me. I told my parents but they didn't believe me. The bastards thought I was lying. When I was twelve, I heard he was coming to visit again. I ran away and stayed in a shelter for the remainder of the year. Social Services were able to get me into a foster home. My parents were charged with neglect and abuse also and remain in prison. The police never found my uncle. When I started...dating...I thought that guys only wanted sex. No one had told me that I can say no. A week ago I found out I was two months pregnant and–and–."

She started sobbing. Her shoulders were hunched over and her face became very flushed.

"I couldn't see any other way out! Jake said he would beat it out of me if I didn't get rid of it!" she almost screamed the last part.

I watched the agony play across her face. Her eyes were a murky gray color. Being a runaway and a foster child, I knew she had had a very rough life.

"Do you know the sex of the baby?"

"Yes, they said it was a little boy. Doctor, I wanted it! I loved it and I didn't even know it!"

"Him. Using euphemisms will not help your situation, Miss Taylor."

Her eyes were downcast when she finally looked me in the eye. Her whole demeanor suggested a woman at the end of her rope so to speak. Storm clouds seemed to follow this woman everywhere she went. And idea of the kind of life she had led flashed before my eyes. Looking at her hands I saw several scars on her wrists. Her will to live though was very strong.

"Are you contemplating suicide again?"

"No. I can't– couldn't go through that again. Not unless I knew I could do it fully. I've tried razors, ropes, pills, anything I can get my hands on. Your not the first psychiatrist to see me by far."

"But I'll be the first to finish the job for you..."

She looked at me with wide, clear eyes. Her breathing hitched and her heart beat faster within her chest. Her eyes then moved across the room and finally settled on the door leading out into the foyer and to freedom and misery. She moved faster than she looked. I met her at the door and was able to grab both her wrists.

"No! I don't want to die!"

"Your not well, my dear. I don't think your coherent enough to make that decision on your own."

She struggled with me as I twisted both her arms behind her back. She was stronger than she looked also. With one hand I was able to hold both of hers and with the other I applied enough pressure on her throat to render her unconscious. I carried her to my basement lab and put her on the slab. When she woke up, I slit her throat. It was a clean incision from ear to ear. I turned her over on her stomach and examined her back. With my best carving knife, I cut two large pieces of flesh which I put in foil and then into the freezer. I knew an excellent recipe these would do well with. I left her body right next to the Chesapeake City Hall on Cedar Road. They found the body immediately the next day.

The evening papers went wild about it. '_Another Ghastly Murder in quiet Town' _was the headline of one article. The police hadn't shown up nor connected myself with any of these murders. I suppose no one knew the patients were coming to see me, all the better for me really. I tended to spread out my _urges_ to once a month. I must add my own analysis of my psyche in here. You're a lucky one, Clarice. Many professionals have died wondering what I thought and think of my acts of violence. Most classify me under "sociopath or a pure psychopath." I disagree with them. I do have a conscience but only apply it when I see fit. You must know I've applied it to your case numerous times. I digress. Dr. F. Chilton was very wrong when it came to understanding myself. I did not commit these so-called atrocities to fulfill fantasies or other nonsense like that. I did them because I could. Does that make sense? Who was there to stop me? Who was there to stop those devils when they took my precious Mischa away?

She always lurked there in the back of my mind. She never spoke to me nor did she ever become a real apparition. I could just feel her there. For months at a time I would forget about her and then one night she would flood my mind and mood again. I couldn't be free of her.

One night when she came back it almost became too much for me. I had purchased my beloved harpy a week before that night. It was easy to conceal and very portable. I wore it attached to a release on my left arm. My shirt and coat covered it completely. I almost ran out of the house that night. Flashbacks of her eyes and the eyes of her killers shadowed my mind. Anger bubbled deep within me. I found myself walking down Fallsway Street at around midnight. I couldn't remember how I came to be there. A young couple walked a hundred yards from me and were clearly inebriated. The man finally pushed the woman against a brick wall and began to grope her there. When I got closer, I could hear them. He was whispering to her and kissing her neck while his hands moved from her waist to her breasts.

He was a tall hispanic man with a strong Bronx accent. He looked Puerto Rican. He had the long thin body with dark hair and eyes. His right hand moved down to the girl's skirt. She started to regain her composure.

"Andreas, we can't. Not here!"

"Come on, baby, this will just make it more exciting!"

"I believe she told you to stop."

I couldn't help myself. The girl took this chance and ran from under his grasp.

"Cindy! Cindy, come back! I'm sorry! Fuck!"

He clenched his fists and turned to face me. He was a good four inches taller than I was. Anger was etched into every line in his face. His frustration was also evident.

"Why did you do that, cabron?"

I stayed silent as I observed him. The silence only fueled his irritation.

"That was a good piece of ass gone to waste now because of you, gringo. Don't you know how to talk. I'm going to fuckin' kick your puny ass for that!"

His fist never made contact with me. He gasped as I thrust the harpy into him again and again. Blood smeared the sidewalk. Blood splashed onto myself, also. I dragged his lifeless body next to the building he had pinned the girl to. I gutted him and cut out his stomach. I was too disgusted by his acts to eat it. I fed it to a stray I found the next morning.

**Author's Note: I am still here! I'm sorry for the delay every one, especially Katherine! I just got a new job working at my college. I have much better hours (not to mention better pay) so I will be able to update again more quickly. I want to finish this story before the real book comes out! Thank you all again for your support and reviews! It means a lot to me and helps me through the slow process of this story. Never fear, I will finish it! **


	8. Five and Six

**Chapter Eight: Five and Six **

Maddox West was the most delicious person I ever had the pleasure of eating. He came to me an unusually sunny day in February, 1975. He was a tall man with black hair and blue eyes. He was intelligent. Shame he was a cocky fellow. He entered my office late on that afternoon. He wore a brown suit with a brown leather briefcase. Both looked like the best money can buy.

"Dr. Lecter, its an honor to meet you!"

He shook my hand enthusiastically and sat himself down in front of my desk. Strike one: Not waiting for the host to be seated first is very rude. He took out a handout and placed it on my desk. I seated myself down and looked down at it.

"I've been assigned to your area, Doctor, and I was wondering if you can fill out the rest of the information."

I scanned the pieces of paper in front of me and read some of the questions. _In your opinion, do you think the public school system is working? What is your sexual orientation? If you are not an American by birth, what do you think of our government's policy with treating immigrants? _I was struck dumb at these inane questions. Maddox still sat there looking at me as if I was a giant Christmas present.

"Well, Dr. Lecter, aren't you going to fill out our forms? The Census Bureau has been wondering why we don't have you on file yet..."

"They were, were they?"

"Oh! Yes! Dr. Lecter, your one of the most influential psychiatrists in our nation! Who wouldn't want to know what goes on behind your skull?"

"I see..."

I tilted my head slightly and looked at him with narrowed eyes. My hands were behind me now and with a flick of my wrist, my harpy was in my left hand. Mr. West seemed to lose most of his confidence at this point...

"If I've offended you, Doctor, I'm deeply—."

"Your not. I can see through that facade you so easily put up, Mr. West."

He stood up abruptly and walked behind the chair as if using it as a shield. All humans can sense danger. They just need to know what it feels like and how to recognize it. Some unknown part of Maddox's brain knew what was coming. I stood up and walked to the side of my desk. The harpy gleamed in the sunlight. Maddox's blue eyes widened and his mouth opened a fraction of an inch.

"Um... Doctor? That's a–a nice knife there... Did you–um–get it at the gun show last weekend?"

His eyes flicked back and forth from mine and the knife. I looked down at it and smiled. He shuddered involuntarily.

"No. Actually I bought it some time ago. It's been very useful to me..."

I turned the harpy over and studied where the knife curved. It was slightly serrated in the middle. I stepped closer to Mr. West. He stood there motionless, out of curiosity or fright I know not.

"Mr. West," I said softly, "do you know how long it takes a man to die from blood loss?"

"I–I don't kn-know, Doctor... I've ne-never b-b-been interested in the mor-morbid."

"Hmm... I don't seem to recall the answer to that one, also."

With one swift swipe, I cut a diagonal gash in his suit. It barely grazed his skin. Small spots of blood still appeared. His eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of his head. He gasped for air and was finally able to move away from me. He toppled a table in his haste to reach the front door. I walked briskly behind him, relishing the feeling of causing so much panic. Maddox reached the door but was trembling so badly, his hands kept slipping off the knob and lock. He finally turned around and faced me like a man.

"Please, Doctor..."

That was the first time some one begged me to stop. So I killed him. In one swift swipe I had gutted him like a pig. His intestines rolled onto my floor and stained one of my best carpets. He shuddered and looking down at his own organs, collapsed on his right side. He had one more convulsion and died. I picked up the corpse and brought it down to my lab. I cut out his liver.

That night I ate it with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. I dumped his body next to the Chesapeake water plant. The papers raved about it the next day. I cleaned my floor and burned the ruined rugs. I never did get a visit from the police in that case. I thought for sure the company the foolish boy worked for knew he had come to quantify me.

* * *

The weeks passed with the papers speculating the motives of the crimes. I treated and saw more patients who needed help. I did my own research on serial killers and published my findings in one of the prominent psychiatric journals. I sat in court as an expert witness three times at the end of February. With the beginning of March, came a harsh blizzard. The snow was at least three feet deep in the streets. I had all my appointments canceled as no one could make the drive to Baltimore. During those days, I walked to the stores and bought all I needed to stay inside for a long period of time. While walking home with bags slung over my arms, I was rudely bumped into by a scruffy looking man.

"Sorry," he muttered.

I glared back at him and recognized him at once. It had been five years since I had seen that man, but I knew him instantly. It was the bow hunter. I shook my head and walked the rest of the way back home. He still lingered with me though. Was he still a poacher? Did he kill for the meat or for the rush of the hunt? I can surely give him a rush...

On the night of March 12, I believe, I walked to his home. I did not ever find out his name. I remembered where he lived. I saw lights on as I approached the house. The street itself was dark and isolated. I entered the house by the front door which was conveniently left opened. I walked slowly through all the rooms. In one room he had a collection of baseball memorabilia. In another was his office complete with a desk, computer, and mounted deer head on the wall. Several stuffed animals were perched on shelves or mounted on the wall, too. From the master bedroom, I looked down into the backyard and saw a shed. Leisurely I walked back into the cold night air.

The shed was converted in to a workshop. I could hear the hum of power tools as approached it. He had his back to me when I entered. A hammer was thrown carelessly to the side on a workbench near the door. I picked it up and advanced again. He didn't know what or who hit him. Blood splattered on the walls and tools. A creative idea came to my mind. I picked him up and tied him to the pegboard. He had his hunting gear in a corner...

He screamed when I pierced him with the first arrow. It went smoothly into his left shoulder. Using the rest of the arrows and any sharp tool I could find I recreated the _Wound Man, _an illustration I studied in an early medicinal book. He lost conscious about fifteen minutes after I was finished with him. I felt satisfied and with a smile walked back again to the warmth of my home.

You can imagine my surprise when _finally_ an FBI agent came to my place of residence. It was a week after the murder when a young man knocked on my door. He was the same height as I, but much thinner. His sandy blond hair was combed back in a desperate act to look neat. His clothes however were rumbled and I could clearly see the outline of two government issued handguns under his jacket.

"Can I help you?"

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes."

"I'm Lead Investigator Special Agent Will Graham. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment?"

"Certainly. Please, come in. Let me take your coat."

We walked into the parlor. I offered him a drink, but he declined.

"No, thank you, Doctor. I was wondering if you can tell me anything about a patient you treated back in 1970 at Maryland-Misericordia Hospital. He was brought into the emergency room with an arrow wound to his left shoulder. No doubt from the news you've heard that his body was found savagely mutilated in his own shed."

"Yes, I did hear a bit of it. Ghastly killing if I may say so..."

"The networks didn't show everything. It was much worse than that."

"I bet... Well, I did treat the patient. I thought it odd that he was 'practicing' hunting in the off-season. I stitched him off and sent him on his way. That was the last I saw of him."

Graham nodded. His green eyes seemed out of focus. He looked tired and beaten down. I could see though that his mind was processing this new information.

"What do you think of the murder, Investigator?"

Graham was silent for a few moments more before his eyes cleared and he looked up.

"My opinion, do you mean, Doctor?"

I nodded.

"Well, I think the Chesapeake Ripper struck again. Somehow it fits his style. But then he didn't take any organs or anything from the victim..."

It was frightening and fascinating to watch his mind work. It was very ironic that at that moment I thought if anyone were to catch me, it would be this young man. Irony is ever the bastard child of the Fates. Special Agent Graham interested me like no other person. He was intuitive and perceptive. He could _understand_ a killer. It scared him to death.

"What would you say if I offered you a psychological profile of the killer?"

He looked up at me. I could see now that was what his interior motive was.

"I would answer yes. You're the best there is and ever was, Doctor Lecter."

We shook hands on it. I helped him back into his old jacket at the door and patted him reassuringly on the back.

"Get some rest, Special Agent Graham. If you like I could meet with you tomorrow evening on the case. I just would like to see what the FBI is withholding from the public. Certain idiosyncracies this killer might have..."

"Of course, Doctor. I'll get you a copy of the case file we've managed to put together. Mind you, there isn't a lot of leads or evidence to suspect anyone. This guy is good."

I smiled at that and waved him off. When I closed the door, I laughed. I was working on my own case! What better hobby than to try and lead the FBI in the wrong direction! It was wonderful. I felt elated.

I felt apologetic for Graham though, thinking he was a gullible young man who would never in a thousand years catch me...

**Author's Note: Well, my dear readers, I am almost done with this little project! Only a couple more chapters to go. I trust some of you have already deduced who the Good Doctor's last victims are... I hope you guys are still hanging in there. I promise I will have the next chapter up soon (probably by this weekend). **


	9. The Butcher and The One Who Survived

**Chapter Nine: The Butcher and The One who Survived**

Dr. Lecter tipped his cigar into the ash tray. In the course of their conversation he had finished it. Only the stub remained, smoking slightly. Clarice stared at him from behind blazing sapphires.

"Did you hold _any_ remorse for those people, Doctor?" she asked in a soft voice.

"No. The killings made no difference to me." Dr. Lecter shrugged.

"What about Agent Graham? He sits now by himself in a run-down apartment trying to drink himself to death!" she took a deep breath, "You ruined his life and the lives of many people! Don't you see that!"

Dr. Lecter looked at her with a stony expression.

"I see, but it is not my fault for how they conducted their lives after I met them–."

"Everyone whose life you've become a part of has met their destruction or ruination–."

"Not every one."

"Yes, every one! Who are you not counting? Are you afraid they will haunt your conscience?"

"I am not afraid of anything. And when did I develop a conscience?"

"You are avoiding my first question."

"I don't count you."

"Why–?"

"Will you let me finish!"

Both adversaries glared at each other. The .45 was back in Starling's hand. Dr. Lecter gripped both arms of his seat in order to reign in his anger. Both took a steady, calming breath.

"I don't count you," began Dr. Lecter, "because I _felt_ it necessary to lead you away from those masters who chain you to their institution. I _thought_ you had more potential than that. You don't know what you can do, little Starling, until you spread you wings and fly away..."

A shiver ran through Starling's spine. Dr. Lecter sat still, just minutely examining Clarice. She seemed even more pale than when she walked into the room. She swallowed hard. Her eyes turned glossy and unclear.

"May I continue?"

"Yes, please," she whispered.

* * *

When two killers meet, both know they are predators. They know one will have to leave or a bloodbath will ensue. Too many murders at one time will cause a hysteria. So, naturally, the murders will either have to decrease, cease, or one of the killers will have to move on.

Carol Richardson was an exceptional woman. She was smart, beautiful, and too dangerous to live. When she came into my office for the first time, I was surprised to see a calm collected brunette. She wore a dark Versace red suit with black high heels. Female serial killers are still so rare now a days. She was courteous and observed all the necessities in greeting a host. Her voice was rich with a deep purr to it.

"Dr. Lecter, it's a pleasure to meet you."

I shook her hand and gestured that she should be seated. Gracefully she sat down and crossed her long, lean legs. She had the air of a queen sitting on her thrown.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Richardson?"

"Forgive me, Dr. Lecter. It is only Ms. Richardson, now."

"No need to apologize; my mistake."

"To get on with matters, Doctor, I've been sent by the Virginian courts for therapy and a new psychological evaluation."

"Tell me why you were ordered here."

"I killed my husband."

Her face betrayed no emotion. No remorse was in that room. Her dark eyes never left my face. A red gleam seemed to be in them.

"How did you kill your husband?" I asked.

"Would you like all the details or just in general?"

"All the details."

"Your brave."

"I have nothing to fear."

At this she smirked. It was the first sign of her arrogance. Her eyes said everything. _You do have something to fear... You just don't know it yet._ She nodded her head and started her gruesome tale.

"My husband, Nathan, was a criminal lawyer, working in Virginia. He was starting to get good at it, too." She paused for a moment here. "He was too damn good at everything... I hated him for that. He was always caring and good natured. He was sleeping when I tied him up. He woke up only when I tightened the knots to the bed posts. At first he didn't know what I was doing. Then he tried a little seduction, thinking I tied him up for sexual purposes. Sweat begin to form on his forehead when I pulled out the hand gun he owned from the dresser. I placed it over the dresser, knowing I was going to need it later. I walked from the bedroom into the kitchen. I could hear his yells from the room. I picked up the butcher knife I had used for dinner that very same night and walked back. His eyes widened when he saw me again. He screamed himself horse when I started cutting off the tips of his fingers. I then cut the middle of his fingers and then the last stumps. He didn't have a voice by then and blood was trickling from his mouth. His hands were white from the tension he was placing on the ropes, trying to get free, and red from the blood of his fingers. I started on his toes, next. I literally cut my husband into little pieces. The police have yet to find his upper torso and left leg."

"Why aren't you here with a police escort?"

"Scared, now, Doctor?"

"No. I was just wondering whether you had a police officer waiting in the foyer."

"I have not been tried yet, Doctor. They still don't have enough evidence to bring me in."

"Why did you tell me this then?"

"Because I know you won't speak of it or write about it in my evaluation..."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I saw the Garcia case and noted how you were able to get them off on an insanity plea. That is not an easy task, Doctor Lecter."

I nodded, thinking of my predicament. This woman expected me to help her.

"I believe I am under court order to assess a truthful evaluation, Ms. Richardson."

"Then do a truthful evaluation and add your take on my crimes."

"Crimes. That is a plural word. How many more murders did you commit?"

"I killed my parents when I was 16 and an elderly neighbor when I was 21. I was arrested and tried for patricide but since I was still I minor I was given parol at the age of 20. They didn't catch me for my neighbor."

She stood up abruptly and walked to my side of the desk.

"I saw you when you killed the hispanic kid..."

In a very uncharacteristic lapse of concentration, I startled.

"What did you say?"

"I saw you gut that hispanic kid. I can see you remember, doctor..."

I did remember. I did it out in the open night air. I did not notice anyone there at the time.

"I see."

"I can tell the courts that you are the Chesapeake Ripper and they will have to investigate. Those arrows over there, Doctor, are they new?"

I didn't have to look to see what she was pointing at. There was a quiver of arrows now hanging proudly on one of my bookcases.

"Yes, I just purchased them. You know you are the only person to figure out that I am the Chesapeake Ripper. Ghastly name isn't it?"

"Yes, I agree. The papers have no respect for _our_ art."

"_Our art?_ I think you are solely mistaken, Ms. Richardson. You have been caught twice. I haven't. While you have no real reasoning behind your actions, I do. Do I need to clarify anything else for you?"

For the first time that evening she sneered at me. Her face contorted into an ugly grimace and her eyes flashed. Her right hand strayed slowly to the pocket of her jacket. Her left hand was tightly fisted.

"I'll kill you where you stand before you pull that meager weapon out, Ms. Richardson."

She paused her hand. I stood up quickly and was at her side, clutching both her hands. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched at the close proximity.

"Do you really think you are in the same league as me?"

She gulped.

"Yes."

Defiance was in her voice and poise. I nodded. With a flick of my wrist I had my harpy in my left hand. She struggled and was able to free her right hand. We both struck at the same time. She slumped to the floor immediately blood flowing from her jugular. A small military knife stuck out of my left shoulder. I pulled it out, hissing at the pain. She gave me a scar as a memento. Carol was still writhing on the floor. Two minutes later she was dead. I ruined another rug but had the foresight of previous events to have placed in old one under her. I quickly disposed of the rug and dumped her body on the steps of the Chesapeake court house. It was a fitting punishment I think...

* * *

Funnily enough my next "victim" was a court ordered patient also. He was overly aggressive, arrogant, and a spoiled beast. His family was the owners of one of the largest and most successful meat-packing companies in the industry. They owned a large estate in Virginia. Their daughter was also a patient of mine. You see, her brother raped her. That wasn't what Mason Verger was charged for though. He was a leader at one of the "Christian" camps his father owned. His father took in all the disadvantaged and abused children of the Eastern United States. Mason saw them the children as his own "amusements." Margot Verger was the only person with any sense in the whole bloody family.

I know Mason Verger will always regret the day he stepped into my office. He was a tall man with shoulder length dark brown hair. He had high cheek bones and deep set dark eyes. He _was_ a handsome fellow. Too bad. When he spoke, he spoke with a heavy Virginian accent.

"Dr. Lecter," he said in greeting when we first met. It sounded more like "Doc-tah Lek-tah." He threw himself into one of my seats and sat cockily. He had a sneer placed firmly on his face.

"Well, Mason, do you know why you are here?"

"Yes, I do, Doctor."

"Elaborate, please."

"The judge ordered me here. Said you were the best."

"Why did he order you here?"

"She. The bitch thinks I'm insane."

"Why is that?"

"Because I fucked my sister and had fun with a couple of brats. She has it in her fuckin' head that I'm a so-called 'sexual deviant.' The old spinster has probably not been properly fucked."

The way he spoke about other people disgusted me. He was a repulsive human being but fascinating.

"How do you view women, Mason?"

"As life-support systems for a cunt."

"Even your own sister?"

"Even that whore. She took a bite out of the chocolate and didn't like it!"

I gave him a small smile to hide my loathing. There were probably countless others he had used in this way and paid off. A man like this is rare but due to society's lax standards, they are appearing more frequently. Hedonists are always the dregs and expendables of society. Mason was clearly a hedonist.

He described in detail all of his habits. He was heavily into hypnotic and illusionary drugs. He was an alcoholic. He told me that bragging about his "conquests" had made him feel superior to other people. He _knew_ he was superior. Each of his visits brought him closer to death. Or so I thought at the time.

Margot Verger was the opposite of her brother. A perfect foil of him. When she was young, she was a thin young woman, very attractive. Not the heavily muscled lesbian you see her as today. She was a caring sweet person. She had ambitions and dreams. After the encounter with her brother, I found out she had an intense hatred for men. She swore to me she would never be comfortable with any man again. When I first met her, she had a black eye and her skin was very pale. She cried softly. She showed all the signs of a terrified person. I did not ask her to sit down. She still had stitches in very uncomfortable places. Instead I asked her to walk with me in the garden. I tended a small garden in the back of my home. Flowers bloomed all year long. The roses were large that time of year. Irises, lilies, and lavender perfumed the air.

"How are you feeling, Margot?"

"Okay," she said in a small, shaky voice.

"No, you are not. But you will be."

She looked at me, suddenly curious.

"How do you know?"

"I know because I am going to tell you how to get better. But first tell me how you feel about your brother."

"I hate him. He–he told me to not scream, Doctor... He told me to bite the pillow and said it would be over in a couple of minutes. It felt like a lifetime."

She started to sob quietly. I handed her a handkerchief and waited until she composed herself. When she could breathe properly again, I spoke again.

"This is what you have to do, Margot. One day you will kill Mason. Not today and not in the near future. But you will kill him. It will be very therapeutic for you. Just with the knowledge that you will, should be comforting. There is no wrong in it."

"Nobody has ever said anything like that to me before..."

She looked almost awed by my words. Her eyes cleared and had a sparkle to them. I can tell she was now comfortable with me. in other meetings we discussed her sexuality and her urge to become stronger. She grew stronger everyday. Mason on the other hand was as much a deviant as ever. One night when the moon was full, he made his mistake.

He had been "eye-ing" me through several appointments when he finally asked me to his apartment for some "fun." Seeing my opportunity, I agreed. I took a small bottle of "poppers" with me. "Poppers" are highly addictive and highly hallucinogenic. They would work perfectly. Soft gothic music was already playing in the background of the apartment.

He showed me some of his "toys" and asked if "I'd like a go". Politely I declined. I was abhorred at the very suggestion. He was hanging from one of his toys when I offered him a popper. He immediately knew what it was and swallowed it greedily. In five minutes, he was totally under the effects of the drug. His whole body was jerking on the rope. He shattered a mirror next to him. I picked up a piece of glass and recommended that he cut his own face off. In a corner of the apartment were two caged and starving dogs. I knew he thought he could scare me. Funny isn't it?

With each piece of flesh dropping to the floor, I picked them up and handed them to the dogs. About five minutes later, Mason's body hung limp. I took his head in both hands and snapped his neck. It was a very clean break if I may say so. After washing my hands, I exited the apartment.

My dear Clarice, I must tell you how astonished I was when I found out he survived. Lucky for me though he was in a coma and could not tell them about me. I didn't bother to finish him off. The doctor had told a reporter that Mason would never walk again much less move much at all. A camera man from the _National Tattler_ was able to get a picture of his face. It was the same monstrous face he had when he died.

We are so near the end of my tale, Agent Starling, but I need to clarify some things that concern the Flutist...


	10. The Last Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note: Thank you all again for reading my version of Dr. Lecter's past. I know it won't come close to Mr. Harris's but I don't care. Read on, my dear readers! This will be the last chapter. **

**Chapter Ten: The Last Quid Pro Quo**

The last scenes before my incarceration were played out quickly before my eyes. Thinking back on them, I realize that time had slowed down the days and let the actions that came about flow freely.

You must remember Benjamin Raspail, Agent Starling. Oh, that man was atrocious. Probably one of the most vile men that walked the earth. His tastes were vulgar. His music was even worse. He was the one who introduced me to Buffalo Bill. He and Klaus, his lover at the time if you remember, were fascinated with a certain Jame. Klaus only came to see me twice; he seemed to sense subconsciously what I was and I could see the fear reflected in his eyes. He had the same look whenever he looked at Jame. He must have had the gift of precognition because he told me the second time we met that Jame would be the death of him. I don't think he knew at that time how true his words rang.

Poor Agent Graham was visiting me more than ever. He paced up and down my study looking for the answer of who the Chesapeake Ripper was when _I _was in the room all along. He would mutter distractedly and then go on a long soliloquy about different elements of the crimes. He was so close sometimes, it frightened me. All I had to do was mention some clue to contradict him and he shattered into despair. We talked about Molly sometimes and his son, although he never stayed for supper. Day and Night we worked on the case. Well, he did. I just played along...

One slow carefree day, I was walking down the street, my harpy comfortably in my left jacket pocket. I was thinking about Graham and Raspail. I had went through my mail that morning and found several letters from an old friend. I met her on some of my travels and enjoyed her company. She had written to me about her niece... Her niece was from Russia and had a reputation that preceded her. She was beautiful and intelligent with a quiet and intense demeanor. Her aunt asked me to meet her at least once to give her my professional opinion on the girl. Lilia Derevko sat on a park bench by herself. She had a dancer's lithe body. I sat down nonchalantly and studied her. Her aunt had a right to worry. We talked for some time. In an attempt to further her "career" I gave her my harpy. After I walked away with her staring at my back until she lost me in the crowd. I don't know how many killers I produced during my practice, but Jackie was right. I did set them loose.

It was the night of the twentieth of March, 1975. I sat in the Baltimore Music Concert Hall wanting to kill someone. The music was being ruined by the inept Raspail! He had not practiced the night before and so was missing important cues. Harsh notes rang out very noticeably. Even the novice music majors from the universities had commented on the horrible performance. The President of the Orchestra shook his head resignedly when he got up from his seat with a frown. Rachel said it was the worst performance she had ever been to. I was furious with Raspail. How can one flutist ruin an entire production? I didn't even know it was possible. That night I went back stage into the dressing rooms. Raspail was sweating profusely and kept wiping his head with a handkerchief. His white shirt was drenched. I could smell the disgusting scent of him.

"What happened out there, Ben?" I asked him kindly.

He looked at me, his eyes with a wild look in them. He looked like a man who had lost his way. Maybe he had...

"I don't know, Dr. Lecter. I–I don't know what's come over me. It was that damn conductor!" He burst out.

He was never one to take the blame.

"The conductor this evening was changing tempo too fast, don't you agree?"

"Maybe–."

"Now I'm the laughing stock of the whole city! I won't be commissioned anymore–."

He went on with his tirade for another ten minutes. I stopped him when he needed breath and suggested we go out for dinner to "calm his poor nerves." We walked several blocks when I took him unawares and stabbed him in the back. He went down cleanly. He didn't even fight. It was a very anticlimactic killing. I cut out his thymus and pancreas. I was in the mood for sweet breads.

A couple nights later, I sat in on another performance. This time the music ran clear and smooth. I hosted a dinner at my home and had the entire board there. It was perfect. We ate and discussed the disappearance. One woman asked what was my key ingredient.

"If I told you, you would not eat another bite."

It was around eleven o'clock at night when all of them left (having taken a piece of Raspail along with them). I cleared the table and set about the tedious tasks of washing dishes. At eleven thirty my doorbell rang. It was Agent Graham.

He was very anxious and kept stuttering. His eyes were wide with sudden inspiration but his face looked worn. I invited him to sit down and take a deep breath to calm down. He then looked me straight in the eye.

"He's eating them."

I was shocked at his revelation. This was much too close to the solution.

"Are you sure?" I asked tensely.

"Absolutely! Listen, I was at Josh's grandparents' house and his grandpa was showing him how to carve a turkey. His grandfather said to cute along the back to get the oysters. I had never heard the term before. I then saw how and what he cut. It was the same type of cut from the back of Darcy Taylor. I couldn't eat after that." He looked green at the memory of it.

"This is remarkable," I commented in a disbelieving tone.

"We had it wrong all along, Doctor. We're not trying to find some disgruntled med student or some crazy mortician. It makes sense! All the organs taken from the bodies were some sort of food item."

He both his hands through his disheveled hair. He was pale.

"You need a good night's rest, Will. Let me go get your coat."

With that I walked out of the room without a protest from him. I retrieved his jacket and made my way into the kitchen. I had been saving the linoleum knife for something special. An FBI agent seemed right. When I came back into the room, I saw him staring at an open book. He was extremely tense. Even from where I stood I could hear his labored breath. Quietly, I walked up to him until I was directly behind him. He turned around and gasped.

I thrust the knife into him. He choked and sputtered and tried to free himself. His hands had given up trying to pull the knife away from my grasp and were trying to find anything to defend himself with. A pain erupted into my side. Five arrows protruded from it. I stepped back, letting Will fall to the floor. My right hand touched the wounds and came away with my own blood on them. Ironic, isn't it? I was going to stab Will again but he reached his gun, strapped to his ankle, first. I was shot twice. My body failed me and hung limp on my desk. Maryland State Troopers arrived ten minutes later.

* * *

They sat in silence. The cigar smoke had almost cleared completely out of the air. Starling was no longer staring directly at Dr. Lecter. Her eyes gazed at something directly over his left shoulder. He still watched her. The ice that she had been, seemed to have melted. Even her posture seemed more soft. The only thing that had intensified was her grip on the .45. Her hand wasn't as steady as it was. Dr. Lecter still sat with his legs crossed at the ankles, his fingers together. He was unnaturally still.

"Of course you know the rest of the story, Agent Starling. I have left no major details out of my account. So we only have one more thing to discuss... Why?"

Her eyes flickered up to meet his. Her expression was almost fearful and anxious. Her fiery hair was trying desperately to get into her face. She moved it impatiently behind her ears.

"Why what, Doctor?" she asked.

He knew she was "playing dumb." She knew that he knew, but did it anyway.

"We had a bargain, Special Agent Starling. You've heard my life story. Now I get to ask you a question and listen to your answer. Quid pro quo."

She rose from her sear and with her free hand smoothed out the red dress. Her other hung limply at her side. She mumbled something.

"I didn't catch that, Clarice."

Her eyes met his. They were tearful but she stubbornly refused to let them fall. Her face was more pale than when she first took off the mask.

"Because they wouldn't stop screaming."

He didn't comprehend what she said at first. When comprehension sunk in, he raised his eyebrows to her. She raised her gun.

"They won't ever stop if you do this," he said while getting up.

If he was about to be shot, then he would be a gentleman about it. He would take the bullet straight-backed and tall.

"Who would have thought that the infamous Dr. Hannibal Lecter would plead for his life."

"It's not mine I'm pleading for."

Clarice's face contorted with anger. The pressure her finger was exerting on the trigger increased."

"You can't get out of this one, Doctor."

"Don't change the subject. They'll go away for a little bit but they'll come back louder and more gruesome looking." Both stared directly into each other's eyes.

The guests downstairs were forced into silence when they heard the gun shot. They all looked around stupidly. One young woman with more brains than the rest ran to the phone to dial the police.

Dr. Lecter stood in the middle of his study. Blood was slowly making its way through his shirt. His eyes never left Starling's. Clarice lowered the smoking barrel. Dr. Lecter staggered backward, his sight blurring. He felt someone sling an arm around his shoulders and guide him toward a couch in the corner. He fell heavily onto it, his breathing very ragged. His vision focused and he saw Clarice kneeling next to him. He now knew why she had worn that dark red dress; it was to hide the blood that splattered on her. With a final sigh, he whispered, "Mischa." Clarice Starling was the last person Dr. Lecter ever saw.

Trembling she stared at the dead body before her. He was dead. Dr. Lecter. Dead. She holstered her gun on her thigh and covered it. With her right hand she reached for his face. Her thin fingers came into contact with his eyelashes; his eyes were blank. Gently she closed them. She looked at the man whom she chased for years.

Clarice rose from her position on the floor and moved quickly toward the desk. Her hands shook as she searched through it but found nothing of importance. The last drawer wouldn't open for her. She found a letter opener and was able to pry the lock. She moved even faster when the sirens entered her hearing. Inside were old and faded newspaper clippings of herself. She took out the clippings and stared at them. Disregarding them, she moved her hand over the bottom of the drawer. It moved. She was able to pull up the false bottom in three seconds. Inside were two photographs. One was extremely old and yellowed. It showed a young girl not more than five years old. Even though it was an old photo, Starling knew the little girl had startling light eyes and dark hair.

"You were right," she whispered to the body, "she was beautiful."

The other photograph was a picture of herself, smiling. Her face blanched. She was noticeably younger. There was no dead look to her eyes and her face was fuller. She didn't recognize herself. _When you lose yourself to your passions, you sell yourself to the devil_. She could hear the people moving about the house trying to get out. The sirens were outside in the front of the grand house. Moving resolutely, she put her mask back on and stepped onto the landing, the pictures held firmly in her grasp. She hadn't bothered remembering the case file. She walked down the stairs in a kind of trance. Argentinian police officers rushed into the house. They jostled people out of the way, their guns raised. In rapid Spanish, they ordered everyone out of the house. Clarice blended in with the rest of the herd. She felt empty. _What did I accomplish? _The guests were even more terrified. They moved around her as if she were not there. No one noticed the specter walk out of the house with blood on its dress. No one heard nor saw it. That night, she woke up screaming. There are some things that are better left unspoken and in this case, unwritten.

_Fin._

**Another Author's Note: I would like to extend my deepest thanks to JetNoir for helping me a lot with this new final chapter. I don't know how I could have done it without him! Thanks, Jet! Oh! One more thing, Lilia Derevko is his vicious killer, not mine! Go read his stories! **


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